


Lovely Day for It

by Bidawee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - We Happy Few, Consensual Sex, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 19:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15825327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: Mitch cupped two hands over his mouth. “Oh Auston,” he said, “please don’t tell me that you’re not taking your Joy.”





	Lovely Day for It

**Author's Note:**

> [This is a work of fiction and does not accurately depict the people listed inside. Please do not share this on social media nor harass people about it, whether they are in the story or not. Please know that I do not condone any non-consensual actions and am only using this as a character study. Thanks.]
> 
>  
> 
> Warning, I really don’t like this story so I’m dropping it in now. Not of the usual elk mind you; it’s kinda itss own thing. But, you were very persistent in seeing it so I must deliver.
> 
> For those of you that don’t know about We Happy Few (probably a lot of you because it’s a relatively new game) you might want to read a quick paragraph on Joy’s wikia page just to get your bearings. You can find that right here - http://we-happy-few.wikia.com/wiki/Joy

Like all major injuries, Auston didn’t see it coming. His trainers were always telling him not to look down, yet, he couldn’t shake the zig-zagging rubber puck inches from sight. With the eyes of a predator, he leapt before his legs could keep up and raced after it without consulting the defence or a lick of common sense.

Skates slick like a pound of butter, his strides put him between two Islanders like the contents in an ice cream sandwich. Unfortunately, the talk of him being sturdy enough to shake off the bumps and bruises wasn’t entirely true, meaning he was all too mortal enough to feel something in his shoulder fracture when they pressed in even if the pain was, at first, muted. A visor that once acted as a set of blinders over his eyes fired up with a light spectacle that his brain had set off, imploding in as reality crumbled around him. It was all automatic; the blunt force made him spazz and lose sensation his arm when he tried to yank himself free.

Unable to react with anything but shock, he fell to his knees and waited out the worst of the discomfort. It was like walking on knives just getting his standing and even then he faltered. For a second he had to look at his hands to make sure they were still there. It didn’t feel like they were. Limp and desensitized, they lacked the strength to so much as pick up his own stick.

A linesman skated over with a pill in his hand, pushing it under his nose with a muttered, “take this”. He’d already taken his Joy but the pain was so great, so he made a stupid judgement call and swallowed it dry. Within seconds, the world in front of him erupted.

Energy was sucked out from his fingertips. Geometric shapes replaced the hard-cut edges and tore out the lustre of the scene in front of him. In the midst of the flurry of snowflakes released from the ceiling above, he noted dressing room was so far away. Something compelled him to move closer but his feet couldn’t respond. The arena’s ice had evaporated and in its place left a valley of sand that buried his blades six feet under.

It was dark too. His surroundings spun with the nearby players’ heads lopped off. Behind them, a flock of zebras scampered over. Their hooves clacked beside him--obnoxious, like nails on a chalkboard. If only the useless stubs mounted on his palm would work, then he’d push them away. He was helpless but to follow along when they popped their hooves off and then led him astray in the direction of the bench, where an entourage of smiling faces looked on.

It got real cold.

There were canaries above him, chirping and singing. He couldn’t avoid them or even look them in the eye without his neck creaking. They were soul-sucking little demons and they jeered at him. So many too. There had to be thousands of them indoors, caged behind a glass wall so that they wouldn’t fly away.

He went to swat them out of his line of sight when their wings outstretched toward him, but then came a pinch in his shoulder so great he had no choice but to refrain. Butterflies erupted from the point of impact, the delicate soul-dew wings crushed by the sound around them. Their chrysalis unfolded from a knot he couldn’t reach and when he tried to, thereby bending the joint sideways, he was smacked repeatedly and eventually restrained.

The muddied carpet they walked on sucked at his skate blades and had him slipping about, making it hard to get a grip. If he really dug his heel in he could hear the mats gush with excess fluid like a sponge. Not the worst sensation in the world, however, it was hard to see what he was doing. Colours were fighting for dominance, the pinks and purples dissolving in streamers. All was accompanied by an ear-splitting ring that made his head pound.

It took meaningful time to construct his bearings. After all, the cushy bed they put him on bounced when he threw his weight around (it was very distracting). As the colours settled and he pulled the thin bed sheet up to his chin, the laughs around him stopped fitting into the setting. Something loud and proud hit him with a hammer. A real good strike too. His head bobbed like a cartoon character’s.

The words _shoulder_ and _harness_ were tossed around, the first of many that he would then decipher. It took a few glasses-for-eyes scientists to really hit the nail on the head, but once they’d forced him to drink some salty liquid that made him throw up and then, let his head settle, all became clear (ish). A sense of his surroundings then returned, the examination table’s crinkly paper cover let go. A visage of him condemned to his bedroom as the ligaments worked to repair themselves flashed over and over again, reminding him of the long road to recovery from his concussion and back problems.

No’s spiralled out from his mouth but they insisted nothing could be done. They said it would be manageable but also horribly boring, not being able to sample the milky way of starlight from outside his window. Not to mention it had to come at a pivotal time in the season.

That was right. Season. Hockey season. Maple Leafs. They were in New York, the city that never slept. Joy’s working effects on his recollection couldn’t stop him from remembering the team bus. Oh, the fun they’d had in the hotel room. Lickety-split practices and then a dance on ice for the thousands. That’s where they were. Playing. Where he was. Supposed to be playing.

None of which was apparent in the room. It made him want to break away but he’d already come awfully close to having the thick bars of licorice-like straps hold him down, so he settled for the stress ball they’d forced him to clench onto. When he breathed through his mouth, they tipped his head back and extinguished his thirst with water to work out the rest. Gradually, more memories flooded back, though the wacky visions stayed the same.

Another conversation with the team’s white-coated wolves proved they would stand their ground. They labelled it a third-degree separation. Above, their faces scorned him with wide smiles that didn’t fit their skinny faces. It split them in two.

Something was wrong, was the first inclination. His medication had gone haywire, was the second. One of the nurses told him he’d overdosed though he’d forgotten when and where he took his last pill.

But that wasn’t his main concern come that point in time. Even his grocery list of injuries stocked up from his time in Zurich didn’t come close to something as menacing as the diagnosis of a third-degree separation. Third degree had the connotations of burns. Searing incisions in the skin. He’d howl like the wolves in front of him, a pure animal.

Once he got a whiff of something bad on the horizon, it only piled on him.

Finally, they broke the news to him and there was nothing they could do to damper his disappointment. The joint was irreparable, ligaments torn as a result of the sprain. Surgery was the only outcome, and that came before the fact that he’d be out of commission for three weeks to rehabilitate the shoulder impingement (whatever that was). He questioned about braces or slings but received head shakes in response. It was either surgery or he live with the long-term consequences.

There was no way to live down or bypass the problem; with Babcock as his witness he agreed to surgical treatment as he applied an ice pack to lower the swelling from the small bump at the top of the shoulder. It was going to be a headache thinking about all the physical therapy not to mention the stress of going through having a screw inserted into him.

He was faint by the end of the orientation, needing assistance with standing not only because of the injury but the mental toll too.

 

The days leading up to the surgery were stressful to say the least, involving many team visits and his mother showing up unexpectedly (or should he say, expectantly, since she had a habit of following his injury report like a bloodhound) and making him tortilla soup, then fluffing his pillows and talking down the worst of the pain with news of the family to help distract him.

From there, it was a series of trips to the hospital and eventually, the operating room to go over his medical history and what to expect after. That’s when talk about his medications inevitably took centre stage, the nurse looking over his prescription of Joy with a grimace.

Auston wasn’t paying too much attention. Her curly brown hair looked like a cone of voluptuous sheep’s coat. His eyes refused to focus his attention elsewhere.

“The first few hours after the surgery would normally be very excruciating but that’s what the opioids are there for. The only problem is, it tends to react negatively with phencyclidine, which is part of Joy’s chemical compound. If combined, the hallucinogens can have unpredictable side effects, such as affecting your heart and breathing rate, so we recommend you stay off the drug for the next three weeks at least, just to be safe.” It was a bunch of word vomit that he couldn’t keep up with.

“Won’t he just go through withdrawal symptoms then?” his mother spoke up, voice inflamed enough to melt chocolate. He’d never been happier to have her by his side until he was dealing with being an actual human adult.

“Yes, but we can have in-house counselling you can request for the time being and we’ll do routine checkups to make sure all’s well. If you’re showing good signs of recovery we can taper down on the morphine and then,” she clapped her hands, “you’re good to go.”

He nodded to appease her but in his mind raced every possible scenario where he’d be left laying on the ground, frothing at the mouth because his body couldn’t adjust. The horror stories about those that strayed were even worse than anything his mind concocted as well. His Joy tried to censor the worst of it, but there was no mistaking blood. Poppies were no good substitute.

The facade was stripping off like old paint. Claustrophobia set in. He spent the few days leading up to the surgery locked in his room watching his toast crumbs. They glistened. He wasn’t sure if they should. He was simply upset that in a week’s time, they might not. May never again.

He went under the doctor’s blade and the reset button on his prescription was, for the first time, slammed down on.

 

The story of Joy was, in a way, the story of the drug industry writ small.

It started with a simplistic idea; fixing the depressive streak inside athletes. Whether their misery stemmed from restrictive dieting, the high-paced sports environment they worked in, or, at the bare bones of the problem, the high pressure, was irrelevant. The issue was that the leagues’ investments were not superhumans. Their paparazzi ornamentation didn’t extend to their personal lives.

That’s when they commissioned what sounded like the optimal solution. Something so potent but darling enough in description to slip past the loopholes in the legal system. The shoulder angel to the drug ecstasy, like an antidepressant but more permanent so that by the time they were done with their players they wouldn’t be able to stop smiling.

From there, a quick advertisement to the executives was the only thing keeping them from shoving the performance enhancers (as they called it) down the throats of athletes until they choked. Profit. And to make matters worse, contracts became entwined in the mix. Those that spoke out were ostracized and made out to be fools who opposed the system and the people in it.

Those were the tales the future stars were weaned on from birth when they got their first pack of pills in the junior leagues (some parents already going outside the drug administration and illegally starting their kids off much earlier too).

By a year after it’s implementation, the effects became normalized and the strange behaviour set in stone. Athlete’s internal programming was as easy to control as a guinea pig in its twist cage. Every action was approved by management and medical doctors all nodding their heads to the same beat.

Auston had never known a life without it; he was one of the kids that got it early. The saddest part was, it didn’t feel early either. Lots of kids had gotten ahold of it before they were deemed ready, so the expectation was that he’d be on it too. But if he’d known to come off of it would be so dreadful, maybe he would’ve thought twice about getting a head start then.

The first week or so he could recall his body having realized it’d lost its valuable resource. The doctors told him he would act impulsively and potentially become enraged should he not balance his medicine right, but he was only able to realize the extent of the damages two days in, when his mother pulled his arm away and revealed thick claw marks crusted with blood. He’d been standing at the kitchen sink for five minutes, she said, just testing how the skin dipped when he pressed down. Funny thing is, he remembered none of it.

Before when he bled, it was a candy-coated, bubbling picture that repressed the actual pain to a white-noise kind of buzz. He could, oddly enough, taste if he smacked his lips, although nothing more. Those were the effects he was used to, not this hocus pocus bullshit. Without Joy there, what was left behind was the ghost of a man. He couldn’t function like a normal human being; it was partially the reason why he would pick at his forming scabs and circle the welling blood--everything was new. His moral conscience couldn’t open up without meeting obstacles Joy had always shoved underground.

He didn’t want to leave his bed. The sun didn't shine and the grass was a stinking yellow colour. He couldn’t keep up to Nala’s peppy little strut when he walked her and all he could see on the pavement were the corpses of snails and slugs wrought by the freezing rain. Smog polluted the expanse of his lungs; in the distance, the fog was colluting outside the skyscrapers and reducing them to blurry shapes. Construction drills were the worst though, loud as a fire siren and cracking the sidewalk into chunks that he swore he could fall through. He had to retire early one too many times, retreating back to his residence with his eyes on the cement because the people's droopy faces spooked him.

Other people never looked so sad before. Perhaps a long time ago they did. Still, it was weird coming home and seeing his mother with eye bags of all things. When pointed them out she was quick to reassure him that he must’ve got it from her, probably the biggest shock of all. Eye bags? He slept better than most people on the team.

Problem is, he didn’t remember having them but he _should’ve_. A quick trip to the hallway mirror changed that assumption, as he traced his reflection carefully. Before, he was an airbrushed mural with blocky bits and well-trimmed hair, now more like a gremlin disguised in human skin, eyes bloodshot, rumey, and so _so_ ugly. He was ugly, as much as he didn't want to admit it. He couldn't help but wonder if he always looked like that; if people not on Joy still admired him knowing he was a shell of his former self.

 

Two weeks in and the therapy visits did help after an hour of convincing the professionals that he wasn't a self-harmer and it was a spur of the moment kind of thing. He chatted about how hungry going all cold-turkey made him and how his ears stung him when he left his apartment. They, in turn, instilled on him the knowledge of how to hold his head high and look as if he was in the proper state of mind as to not attract the media. They helped him "envision" a world with bold colours, rainbows, and smiling faces using hypnotic treatment and the same imagery training they taught them to use during games. In truth, it a momentary, band-aid fix to a problem up and beyond his expertise.

They'd leave in their perky little vehicles that spouted scary black puffs of fuel, waving at him from where he stood safe in the belly of the lobby. They scooted out of visitor parking, the garbage tumbleweeding from overflowing dumpsters nearby catching in the wheels. Once they were out of sight he wordlessly rode the elevator up to his room and buried himself under his old laundry. There, he decomposed slowly until his family retrieved him for dinner as he dodged even more questioning.

Nala was the only one that didn’t ask questions. He liked having her nearby. He’d never realized just how soft her fur was until that point in time.

 

One day, he stumbled onto a video detailing a hockey player in the nineteen-nineties painting with his own blood on the ice because he thought it was strawberry syrup. After rounding up the unaffected and shell-shocked teammates, authorities charged management with malfeasance and ordered they change the Joy formula to prevent the malfunctioning brand from being sold on the market in the future.

It was amazing to think that in so much time, so little had changed. Just a few weeks back he could remember wanting to separate his shoulder further just because he lacked the common sense not to.

He didn’t watch the video to his end; company beat him to it. One problem led to another and without donning a new pair of clothes like he would’ve on a regular day, he answered the door with a gruff little snort.

Another problem, without Joy he couldn’t just speak to anyone. It was weird. Words just didn’t come out of his mouth and when they did, they were weirdly stilted. He could tell the others didn’t fall victim to the same problems. His visitors talked a mile a minute. Keeping up with their train of thought was impossible.

Without Joy, there was no fun in doing the mundane. Food’s consistency was bleak. Mush even. And not only could he not keep up with them, but they would look at him like scientists would a two-headed frog. He knew it was because he was acting weird and that he was now the odd one out.

But as he watched them, horribly sober, he could point out little quirks he’d never seen before. Take, for example, Willy, who was perfectly happy chirping him for laughing at some shitty romcom they’d put on before then devolving into a fit of giggles so violent he rolled off the couch. Brownie really liked eating food and did so without applying manners when he got exceedingly hungry at team breakfasts, using his hands even. Gards would jump rope until he was sick and Naz had a horrible habit of breaking sticks in his hands, much to the chagrin of the equipment crew, because he liked how it felt.

So they were all idiots. And him being the sanest of the group wasn’t something to write home about either. He didn’t want to get used to laughing at the idiocracy of his friends but it was fun while it lasted, that he could admit.

 

Week four was when things started turning around and the worst of the withdrawal effects wore off. His appetite returned to normal which meant no more midnight scavenging, and better, he could tolerate the humdrum medical checkups he was shoved into without yawning big enough to snap his jaw in two. It stopped becoming a chore to talk to people and gradually, their freckle-specked faces and average body weights became more feasible. The humanity flowed back into the different crevices of his body until he was whole again and only then was he able to function without being a half-human, half-machine hybrid.

His doctor said his immune system and inner tolerance was the sole reason he was able to fight off the addictive symptoms; finally a diagnosis he was glad to hear. He didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened without it.

Upper-level management was happy having him back in action, hooking him up with multiple psychiatrists and physiotherapists to work him up to donning the red practice jersey and eventually joining the front lines again. All the while, they donated him colourful little calendars that monitored the Joy dosage he should be taking. On it, the pale strokes became more pronounced as the weeks progressed, demanding he take more medication to get him back to speed for playing.

It was the kind of thing they gave IR players that weren't on strict medication or rookies in the Junior league to help them anticipate the fast-pace of the NHL, not a sophomore who knew the name of the game. They made it clear their little care package wasn’t a choice though, so he took it home and gracefully disposed of it under his kitchen sink.

He didn’t care what the calendar said, the hospital still didn’t want him trying to slip a few pills until week six. He thought he be clambering for it but, on the contrary, over the four weeks something very different had happened.

There was something exquisite and new about the world without Joy. The former flashy pinks that paraded themselves around like flocks of flamingos were wiped away and diluted into a somber gray. Rain puddles were no longer liquid glow sticks. He could stand in them and let his shoes soak through but not be upset. It took him back to jumping around in puddles as a child.

It was a different kind of ecstasy. Depressing? Yes, but also a kind that put a lot of things into perspective. His teammates never looked and acted so stupid until he was in his little monochrome world watching them whip towels at each other until their skin was blistering red, tying their skate laces so tight that circulation was cut from their feet. It never affected them in the media’s eye; they played like the living dead and clocked out early like the little drones they were.

The ones that weren't robotic and stilted when they moved were the exact opposite; stuffing so much joy under their rib cages that they'd probably burst at the seams. People like Mitch were the definition, the poster boy with a full-toothed smile, never stopping, pumping blood to his heart as he skated laps until his complexion was as red as a stop sign. Even when dehydrated he was a giggling mess, pooling onto Auston and tightening his fingers around his shoulders until his nails were so deeply hooked into the skin that they threatened to disturb his sling. The man was high management even when on Joy; without it, the intolerance levels inside of Auston were off the Richter scale.

But, he was nothing if not a good friend, so he played the part of nanny and was Mitch's driver the way home. He was less self-absorbed and scouted out for the team in his spare time in a desperate effort to distract himself from how slow the world was moving. If it meant he went out of his way to get Freddie his ketchup in the morning or collect the pucks on the ice after practice, he didn't mind. After all was said and done, the ice quickly became his sanctuary.

Sensation was another thing, the slick schluck of skate blades was so vibrant and compelling it almost brought him to his knees. The muffler fell from his eyes without Joy and despite all the suffering, the nostalgia of the innovative twists and turns coming back to life as an adult, no longer drugged out of his mind, made him yearn for the early days in Scottsdale when the hour drives to so-called "local" rinks was more an adventure than a hindrance and falling on his ass wasn't frustrating.

With only a week left before trainers predicted he make his debut, Auston scoured the internet for answers, dug up similar claims from retired players recovering from the addicting substance of Joy not crammed down their throats or dripped in from an IV stand to make up for their time-off during summer vacation or bye-week. Anonymity wouldn't protect him if he reached out, so he took their advice from the other side of the computer monitor and left the house to experience what he could.

Surround-sound movies and his mother's tortilla soup were his first culprits and even all the walls closed in on his claustrophobic mind and he woke up to his mouth salivating for the chocolate flavour of the brand of pills he preferred, he resisted temptation, crushed the capsules under his heel, and fought on.

Gradually, the dizziness and nausea subsided. He could walk outside without his sensitivity to the cold blinding him. The gray skies had an eyedropper deposit a bit of blue back into them and the nightlife wasn't full of stragglers (even if he didn't have the appetite for the ladies). Although his teammates were still the rowdy bunch, he could tolerate them more, so long as he subsidized time for breaks in between. They popped Joy in their mouth like Mike and Ikes over dinner and drinks, only eyeing Auston when he watched but did not repeat their actions.

A world without Joy was one an athlete wasn't supposed to walk; there were designated trainers and supervisors on the hunt for deviant behaviour like it to squash as per the terms of their contracts. They'd be on him to overdose in the training room should they suspect he was stashing the pills. That meant fighting any lingering side effects tooth and nail to put on the best face possible for the media.

Without Joy he had mood swings like a regular person; he grew sad and angry in seconds and no longer had a delayed reaction time to bad news. Replicating the effects of it, adding a pep to his step and joking with the media while spouting out the same-old script as he did normally, was easier said than done. He was still the same old Auston, just not sugar-coated in superstar material.

Week seven came and went. He was hand-delivered his compartment of pills, set in a spiral device not unlike birth control with a smaller variant to take before games for an extra burst. He put on a smile and took it home, before pushing it into the dumps for the rats to enjoy. He found solace with his headphones on, choosing not to listen to tunes but hear the washed-out pitter-patter of the rain outside. Grounding him in the current day under moonlight's blanket.

Being on the ice for the first time without it was like his first walk outside but worse. The jumbotron was too bright, noises sprouted from the fans like nails on a chalkboard. Babs would shout instructions in his ear and he'd have to fight to not spring up and clock him, just to get the shoulder devil off his back and let him play the way he always did. Without Joy, he was not synchronized with the rest of his team, even with practice. Half the game was spent playing catch up without a single goal to his name.

But when they won from the skin of their teeth and saluted the victorious crowd, nothing Joy could conjure was able to compare. He'd yelled his accomplishments to the heavens, let Mitch barrel into his good side and let the two of them skate away with intention of ripping into a pizza later and talking off their bumps and scrapes. There was something addictive about not taking drugs that he mourned ever having to watch fireworks go off in the night sky when some drunken idiot smashed his beer bottle on the sidewalk.

That didn't mean he was immune to a few tricky things that made it hard to manage a cool persona. That being the mood swings, one of many side effects and one that came with a vengeance. He loathed them, loathed wanting to break down in the middle of a power play and having to ward off his teammates because they thought he was severely injured. It was no wonder they'd started scrutinizing his doses, forcing him to use the old pill-hiding trick using his brunt tongue just to pass the tests at the doors. He suspected it'd be their meddling that pulled the rug out from under him, but no way no how was he letting them take control of his life.

By God, the person he was couldn't be explained in a long article. It was embarrassing, having stooped so low and had no one pull him aside. That he fed into the jock stereotype of the athlete without complaint and had so many women and agencies at his bed and call that he could be operating his own brothel. His mother hid her disappointment too well from him but he had a feeling even if she'd tried to intervene, his brainwashed mind wouldn't have cared.

In the end, it wasn't the team that found him out, but his own best friend.

 

Withdrawal symptoms were immediate and daunting, catching him off-guard at the worst possible moments and raising suspicions. He could be on the team bus, locker room, hotel bathroom; nowhere was safe. A quick online search determined that he was prone to them when he was physically or mentally exhausted, which was as vague as a definition as possible and didn’t help him in the slightest. Being an athlete, he dabbled in both on a daily basis.

However, it wasn’t playing that was the problem. It easier hiding his clearheadedness as an itty-bitty shape on the ice when he was watched by the camera lens' and drunk fans. It was his friends he had to worry about, whom arguably had the most power in calling his bluff. The Auston they knew looked on dope and was a moody bitch with a girl on call for game nights when he needed the adrenaline burst. Despite the fact they couldn’t see the bags under his eyes so defined they could lift weights, he constantly worried that little bits would slip through when he least expected it.

The crying stage of withdrawal struck post-practice when he was crouched on Mitch’s sofa of all places. It was supposed to be a Call of Duty marathon and a good ol’ cheat day perfect for ordering pizza and sipping beers. It was picture-perfect-esque and he thought of all places he would be able to blend in perfectly but yet there he was, fighting tears produced from a mood swing that’d hit him like a baseball bat.

Full-out sobs were absolutely inappropriate; he tried rubbing at his eyes to make it look as though he’d lost an eyelash, but it continued to escalate. He didn’t even know why he was sad--his character was killed on-screen maybe--but once it started he couldn’t stop.

He’d shoved a fist into his mouth to catch the watery coughs but Mitch eventually turned his head to see what the fuss was about and was slapped with the image of a red-eyed, swollen lipped Auston staring down at the controller in his hands, threatening to drop it because of how much he was trembling. The game was abandoned in an instant.

“Aus! You’re crying,” Mitch supplied, stuffing his nose up in Auston’s face and studying his pupils from his new position (Auston did his best to clamp his eyelids shut before Mitch could recognize the larger-than-normal size). The hands not cupping his cheek removed the game controller from Auston’s hands and placed it down on the couch cushion where it wouldn’t be disturbed. Because of the dip in the weight distribution, it slid over and pressed into Auston’s leg regardless.

“I know,” he spat back, unintentionally venomous because of the intentional pressure cooking inside of him. Mitch wheeled back out of shock, although he didn’t release Auston’s hands nor try to put a reasonable distance between them.

Instead, Mitch used the excuse to straddle Auston in a means too intimate to be bro-like. It was something he only started doing once Auston stopped taking his Joy; he suspected the many team discussion meetings went with four or five of them unknowingly in the other’s laps, reviewing the play-by-play with loopy eyes. He couldn’t remember a time in the foggy past when Mitch dared to come so close without fearing a label be slapped on him.

Mitch dabbed at his eyes with a tissue he’d swiped from the end table’s box. “I knew you were out of it after the surgery but this is on another level,” Auston squeezed his eyes shut until it became physically painful, “you should talk to the doctors about it. Your painkillers could be interfering with your Joy.”

“My body’s flushed the last of it out, just trying to get back in the groove now,” Auston replied to yield any accusations thrown his way. “He said this was normal.”

“I don’t know.” Mitch tugged at his bottom lip with his front teeth. “This is a bit much. This is the second time this has happened, remember the bus?”

Shame flocked to Auston’s lungs and made them constrict, ears turning red. His brain oh-so-kindly broadcasted the memory of him abandoning a game of Euchre to make a desperate run to the bathroom. Not to piss, but to choke out a few tears and spout some insults to take off the worst of the heat. Mitch must’ve checked up on him; it was the only way for him to have recalled it happening in the first place.

“The bus was something else,” he said quickly, turning on Mitch as he tried to intimidate the man into getting off of his lap.

Mitch studied his expression for a solid minute, then out of the blue cupped two hands over his mouth. “Oh Auston,” he said, “please don’t tell me that you’re not taking your Joy.”

“I’m not allowed to mix medications with it still in me,” he said. The hands returned to his neck and upper torso, grazing over Auston’s tattoo sleeve and bulging muscles ripe from training.

“It’s been weeks Auston,” Mitch retaliated. “I had my suspicions before; you’ve shown all the signs.” He sat back, removing his hands to hold the fingers up in Auston’s face and count them. “You don’t eat as much, you’re so standoffish, more than usual at least, and you cry. You make _me_ sad.”

To accentuate his point he lunged forward and gave Auston a whooping hug. He turned his head to speak into his neck, “I don’t want you to hurt.”

Auston laughed to himself. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m taking it,” he rushed to assure the other man despite knowing any “sadness” Mitch felt was a mimicry of the actual thing, “just at a lower dose so my body has had to adjust.”

“I did that too when my shoulder got injured,” Mitch pouted. “I didn’t cry. I didn’t do half the things you did, that’s why I’m worried.”

“It has nothing to do with Joy, trust me. I’m just feeling particularly emotional, thinking some thoughts.” Mitch rubbed a hand into his back, a gesture meant to be soothing but at the same time a bit concerning. Again, Mitch’s clinginess was accentuated to the point of fault. Auston wanted some space.

“You’ve been having a lot of very emotional thoughts then. I see it all the time. I try to feed you fries at dinner and you take off in a hurry like someone lit the bar counter on fire.”

“Well, how do I say this? It’s not about you per say but--” he spat out in a hurry. Mitch perked up and dislodged himself long enough for Auston to physically move him to the other seat on the couch not occupied by the game controller digging into his jeggings.

“About me?” His head craned to the side. “You’re thinking about me? And you’re crying on Joy? Must be something pretty bad.”

“Yes, uh,” he cringed at the direction his words took him, “it’s been making me a bit nervous. I can’t tell you but yeah, that’s it,” he finished lamely.

“I’m your best friend, what can’t you tell me?” Mitch asked. “I thought you said I was approachable. If I did something wrong you need to tell me.”

“You wouldn’t want to be my friend if I told you the truth.” He wedged the actual truth as subtly as possible, trying not to nudge suspicion. Mitch’s expression warped into something entirely different then and there, giving Auston a once-over.

“Is it,” he stopped himself, took a deep breath, “is this about us?” Auston’s nose scrunched up in confusion, nostrils flaring. “Willy said you didn’t want to say anything back in New Jersey but I kinda knew.”

“New Jersey,” Auston said to himself, remembering how a bad judgement call and a Joy overdose led to him accidentally kissing Mitch. Neither of them took it badly but it sounded like Mitch had done a lot more thinking about it than he had.

“I didn’t want to get my hopes up but--”

Auston intercepted. “It is about you.” All said in an effort to dispel any rumours.

“So it’s true,” Mitch deadpanned, a sparkle in his eyes. “That’s why you won’t talk to me.”

Mitch placed two hands behind Auston, bringing himself forward. Auston tried to move back but the couch was so small there was almost nowhere to go. Both their controllers hit the ground with a ping, owners pressing into each other. Auston’s back was snug against the outer layer of the couch’s stuffing before he could compute what was happening.

“Auston, I felt it too,” Mitch said. The bombshell he dropped had nothing on the look in his eyes. Devoted and darling. But it simply wasn’t something a normal person _said_. Was this was love was like on Joy?

“W-What?” He tried to back up, but Mitch was on him like a bumblebee on sugar water.

“Don’t deny it. I knew there was something between us. You did too; have for a while but just didn’t want to say it. Then there was surgery and God--look at you go. Still not back to normal but finally bold enough to say it.”

“Mitch, I think you need to calm down.” He couldn’t find purchase on the couch’s hide, slipping down into the belly of the beast as Mitch leered from above, yanking the leash around his neck to keep his eyes trained on only him.

A husky laugh sounded from deep inside Mitch’s chest. “Don’t deny it,” he repeated himself. “Willy said so. Always looking so scared now. It’s cute. Come here.”

“Mitch,” he stressed the name hoping to snap Mitch back into reality. The other man was having none of it, if the tremble was anything to go by.

“I’ve waited so long,” he murmured. He distributed his weight so that Auston had no choice but to let him slide forward. “It took a little shock to the system but it worked. Come on, touch me. I don’t bite.”

When he didn’t move, Mitch took over and worked his hand for him, placing it just low of his collarbone and tracing it down his shirt. It was something so ludicrous he swore he could hear the sitcom laugh track in the background. But no one was laughing. Mitch was taking it seriously. In his own little world, Auston was playing hard to get and he was some virtuous seducer.

“Say yes.” Mitch let the hand fall just enough to feel where his heartbeat. Although he looked happy with himself there was the slightest inclination that he was nearing the end of his rope. The undergrowth of his happiness had a trail of thorns growing, waiting to pierce

Auston didn’t have the heart to clarify; telling the truth was not an option. If he said no then Mitch would not only be left embarrassed but also angered, and that could lead to an outing should he collect enough evidence. If playing along and taking a stupid kiss seriously would stop Mitch from pulling the plug then he really had no other option.

All he could do was nod and try not to cry again when Mitch’s response was to make a face so overwhelmed with happiness nothing in the world could compare. He didn’t even need to be on Joy to see the colours pinwheeling out from Mitch’s eyes in all directions.

Mitch pestered him on and on until Auston took him to bed, and even as he fumbled around trying to work out the moving parts, the only thing he could really focus on were the pinprick pupils swirling with ecstasy, the owner completely under their control.

 

Sex before had always been like being given a single chocolate chip cookie while the rest of the batch sat steaming in front of him, just out of reach. Of course, it made him hungrier, wanting more and more until he was full. He was the guilty party of the Leafs when it came to serialistic sexual misadventures. He couldn’t help it, something in his code was telling him to be promiscuous. As such, every girl was a different experience wrought from scratch, which only made him want it more.

Being with a man was different because there were sharp edges and hair on the legs that supermodels had long since expedited. Mitch wasn’t working to impress him with superficial moaning or quakes when Auston took him in hand--he only tremored when Auston accelerated and would then go on to shakily praise his efforts. When he dared to test the boundaries more and slide their cocks together, Mitch rewarded him with a few more whines and a cross-eyed expression that sent both of them over the edge.

The explosion behind his eyelids and subsequent limb jiggling made it feel as though Auston had undergone a seizure. For a split second, it was like he was back on Joy, but that was tomfoolery; it simply wasn’t the same. Because Joy was manufactured kind of happiness, like eating artificially enhanced food. Technically, it tastes the same, it’s but not the same.

It was hard to explain, but being able to experience that realness and leave sated; he didn’t want to let go of it.

The only thing that wasn’t real were his feelings for Mitch, still just as platonic as ever. He liked the friends with benefits situation, didn’t mind showing him the most intimate parts of himself, but it was all founded on a lie. Founded on the belief that Auston wanted to be there and revelled in how he was able to pleasure him when it was just a cover-up to keep him sterilized and quiet.

 

He played with Mitch just like how a cat played with a wounded mouse. And he hated it.

Although, to lessen the blow to his guilty conscience, it wasn’t _all_ bad. Living in house with Mitch made it easier to keep his mother out of his squabbles and get used to what a Joy user looked like when he was not on it: firstly, the the foggy eyes like that of a glassmaker’s. The hunched over slouch he carried when he stood, like a zombie. And the cunning little smile of his. Cute outside in front of the cameras but something out of his worst nightmares when they were grinning up from the dip in his pelvis, teeth dangerously close to the head of his cock.

The rest was all stage-managing. Putting up a good front and tousling his hair at home then gelling it up in public. All playing along to the name of the game as he worked his shoulder back to normal. Mitch, where credit was due, would massage it and help with his exercises like the dutiful boyfriend character, which went miles in helping him get back into shape. He learned that if he wanted space he’d have to do it before Mitch got his hands on him though. If he tried mid-massage he would be too far under his spell to reject the extra pair of hands, even when they dipped lower and the mood changed dramatically.  

(He didn’t know just how bad Joy’s stamina was until he was expected to give something every night and do so without noticeable signs of exhaustion. That was one of the big downsides, because he was sure the skin of his dick was rubbed raw.)

Every encounter was made of something paranoid, even with known friends. Mo was a big one. He’d never looked wrong before but when not on Joy his chubby little face stretched out a bit more. His mole darkened and eyelashes thinned until he was, well, not grotesque but far less appealing to the natural eye. Auston would work up the courage to say something, turn the corner and find Mitch in Mo’s lap joking about and lose all strength in his confession.

Team staff were more like plague doctors. He refused to go anywhere within their vicinity and hid out in the showers when they made their rounds. It was the only way to make sure he wasn’t force-fed Joy. Just one would be enough to reset everything and he wasn’t ready to let go.

There’d be times it would be too hard. He’d actually look forward to a future with Mitch even when all the signals dictated he felt otherwise then turn over in bed with fondness and lose it because Mitch was swallowing a pill or kneading the sheets. Whenever it happened, they were sent back to square one, unable to progress past the first stage of the relationship because there was no trust.

If there was one plus in all the madness, it was having a good season get better. Skating rounds knowing the playoffs were within reach and that, unlike the year prior, he’d be there in person to hear the crowds cheer his name. Already, he could feel overwhelmed at practice as he hung by Freddie (who was his sole security blanket, his goalie mask having obscured Auston’s eyes and his secretive personality a sign of hope) and fired off one-timers from Mitch’s passes.

At one point he really did mess up and fall flat on his ass during laps, skidding into the boards and only salvaging his shoulder after spinning to have his hip take the brunt. No Joy meant no buffer--he took it head on and rattled in place, ice shavings blanketing him. The preening coaches immediately took notice and advanced on him to make sure he was alright, his loss of control a big red flag.

He lay in his little semicircle, legs positioned awkwardly. Their steps and skate blades grew louder and he couldn’t be bothered to get up. He was so tired. A ball and chain were linked around his waist, keeping him in place. Another God-forsaken episode he guessed, another one for Mitch to coo about as he placed a pill on Auston’s tongue and sat on his stomach to keep him from running.

Babs reached him first, having been on the ice before the blow. What was in front of him was the wounded animal-like posture of a man. His eyes were full and down-to-earth, arms scratched up, and hair matted. Not the superstar they wanted and frankly, deserved.

It was so, so wrong but he smiled. He squinted his eyes so that the blaring fluorescent lights would make him look high. His abilities did help to grease the coach’s palm but it was ultimately Mitch’s arrival to the scene wherein he shielded Auston like a veil and began his frivolous doting that ultimately got Auston out of trouble.

In that way, lying through his teeth to him and using sex as a front wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had.

 

Mitch wasn't shy from admitting he had an addiction; for Christ's sake he had a whole sponsorship deal with one of the Joy companies that represented the NHL. Eyes keen, having him around in his house to pick at his prescription bottles wasn't helping. There were only so many kisses he could fake before he needed to clean his mouth out with mouthwash.

Every time he internally gagged at the prospect of Mitch, his intuition would backfire and press another kiss to the man’s forehead out of grief. It further fanned the flames and the more he became despondent, the more he could tell Mitch’s intuition was beginning to backfire and pose unwanted questions.

All too often he looked over his shoulder as he flossed his teeth and saw Mitch digging through drawers, slamming his laptop’s screen down when Auston re-entered the room in the most conspicuous manner possible to obscure the evidence. There’d be times he swore Mitch was looking for something that didn’t exist just to be suspicious.

Joy users were increasingly paranoid the more dependent they were on their medication. He liked to think Mitch was one of the afflicted.

It was a series of mistakes that made the “end” accelerate at them full speed. It started with them both picking up their medication together post-game, followed by him pretending to swallow a dosage and then scrubbing his tongue clean as Mitch grew drowsy and faded into the couch cushions. Together, they’d pressed up against each other, watching television late into the night. Mitch was dreaming of sheep, probably. Auston, on the other hand, was contemplating if he should throw out the bottle in two day’s time when it was garbage collection or holding onto the prescription medicine for a little while longer for the ripe opportunity.

He went with the latter, not wanting to test fate. The pink capsules and the container that sheltered them were stuffed behind the tissue boxes and lube with the other half bottles in his bedroom end table where he assumed they’d be kept safe. He was the only one that went in there, after all, and Mitch had his own table and lube to use if he couldn’t keep his hands off himself for two hours.

So, all in all, he was satisfied coming back to the gym after a merciless workout. Thought he’d come back to chomp on some leftovers and take a nice long shower to get the grime off. Instead, Mitch was up in his face from the second he opened the door, eyes contorted with fury.

"I was right," Mitch said. In his hand was a full bottle of Joy prescribed for the month of March, clacking with how many capsules budged around inside. "You stopped."

"I--" Auston stopped and cleared his throat. Needles were sticking themselves into his stomach, making it hard to so much as close the door behind him to keep from any more eavesdroppers. "Yes, I did. My doctor thought it'd be best."

"You used that excuse last time." Mitch advanced on him, the falsified look of anger still glued to his lips and brows.

Auston backed up enough to give him breathing room, then rounded on him until he'd won back some of his personal space. "Because it's the truth. Take it or leave it."

"I could report you to management." Mitch's eyes hardened. "They'd just inject you. Force-feed you. For your own good, of course.”

Auston rolled his eyes, trying to brush off the threat regardless of how much it terrified him. "It's not that bad Mitch."

Mitch squawked, "not that bad? People that come off of it are suicidal! They can't eat or drink they just think all day until their brains are fried! There's a reason athletes use it; how else would our bodies keep up?"

"I've been fine for the past two months," Auston growled. "I like it actually. I'm _here_ here. Really here," he clarified when Mitch gawked out of confusion. "There's no stupid rainbows or those freaky-ass pedestrians with the wide smiles. It's just normal. You haven't been normal for a long time."

He wondered if the real Mitch was immune to the effects or if he really was a quiet kid transformed by the medication. Either was plausible, the latter far worse. The Mitch behind the grinning and jokes was the one he wanted by his side.

To his surprise, Mitch laughed in his face. “Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? You love Joy, same as me.”

“No, I really don’t,” he said. “Seeing the same thing day in and day out. Scribbling with blood on the walls and breaking our equipment for the thrill of it? We look like fucking lunatics Mitch!”

“It’s against the law,” Mitch persisted. “Against the team--against me! Did you even care? Or did you just use me for the sex? The stupid,” his hands linked in each other, “probably horribly painful sex, like two dead fish rubbing against each other. Was that what it was like for you?”

Auston snatched Mitch’s hands out of the air. “For the record, it felt fucking incredible. Better, even. I just couldn’t keep up with you because of how drugged up you were. Once you’re off of it, it’s actually real you know.”

Mitch was visibly fighting the waves of euphoria still clouding his brain to continue looking angry. The end result was a demented facade, half-grinning, half-shouting. “You used me! It was never about the love, was it? You just wanted me off your back!”

“Well--that I don’t want to--yes. Kinda.” Mitch’s face dawned in horror. “I do like you a lot though!”

“Like?” Mitch’s reply was shaky. His fingers threatened to drop the bottle.

“Look, there’s an easy solution to this,” Auston said. “If you’re fine with the sex so am I. I just wouldn’t be able to do long term. Forget about the drug thing; what I do in my own time is my own business.”

Mitch turned away. “See, this is why you’re not supposed to go off of it. You make stupid decisions like this.”

“What?”

“At least before you were too busy sucking face with puck bunnies to pay me heed but now you’ve gone ahead and used me and now just want to dump me off, eh? All to save your own skin. You’re a fucking asshole!”

With how quickly Mitch’s emotions could turn, Auston fought to stifle the fire before it blazed out of control. “Hey. Hey!” He grabbed his arms and forced him still. “Calm down. I didn’t use you. It was real to me and I wouldn’t abandon you, not ever.”

Mitch spat in his face. “You wouldn’t be doing this if you were taking Joy.”

Auston’s face dropped. “But I’m not taking Joy and you can’t make me. If you don’t like how it is, I’m sure there’s plenty more fish in the sea. But I’m not going to make myself miserable just to make you happy.”

He didn’t bother putting up with the bickering anymore. He marched down the hallway until he reached the bathroom door, swung it open just big enough to slip through, and then slammed it loudly behind him.

The bathroom became his time-out spot, the toilet his throne until he could work out what exactly he was going to do. If he became a known Downer then no one would sign him. His career would be over before it’d even started and it fucking terrified him. More so when he heard Mitch singing to himself on the other side of the door like a choir boy. The same nursery rhymes and jingles he’d chant in the shower except eerier. Plugging his ears made no difference.

He waited out dinner, watching out from the bathroom curtains until it darkened enough. Then he made his escape.

He flew into the bedroom and opened the closet, grabbing game-day suits and casual wear and throwing them to the ground. Out was the only solution. He needed out of Mitch’s home and Mitch’s life until it all blew over and only then would he be able to think straight. It wasn’t an easy feat; Mitch was like a wallflower. Or a spider, waiting out dinner. Auston hadn’t even cleaned out his shoe collection before he caught a whiff of Mitch over his shoulder.

“Hey, you don’t have to do that now,” he said. The seriousness spread on his face didn’t work when the rest of his expression looked so doped out. His eyebrows weren’t even symmetrical, one falling lower than the other.

“I--what?” he said, eloquently. Mitch put a hand over his and yanked the shoes out before Auston could deposit them in a carry-on bag. Even when on Joy, Mitch wasn’t one to get up and physical, which should have surprised him more than it did.

Hot air blew out of Mitch’s nostrils. “I’m mad at you, but not that mad. I’ll help you pack in the morning.”

Auston took his shoes back gingerly, shaking his head. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t. You’re still my friend even if you treat me like garbage.”

“I never treated you like garbage. For the record, it’s my decision, okay? I already said we could keep sleeping together if you wanted so I don’t know what you want from me.”

Mitch didn’t look convinced. The hand once holding Auston’s shoes dropped. It’d be so easy to reach out and hold it to his own but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He could tell Mitch wanted the same thing and was disappointed when he didn’t. The beginning of the end for both of them, even if he was eager for it and Mitch was digging his heels in.

 

Morning crowed its happy tunes through the beaks of birds, waking Auston from the delusional headaches endured in a mostly restless sleep. He tried to work off the worst of morning breath as he rolled over, legs entwined in each other enough to cut the blood flow off. The blankets were stifling, trapping heat to Auston’s skin until his boxers were slick with perspiration. Trickles of sweat were all that his forehead had left to claim, the cooling temperature a blessing when taking into account how a migraine was budding deep inside.

He’d repressed the worst of the argument from the day prior, overlooked how the other side of the bed had a container of Joy opened up with two pink pills sitting ripe on the cap. It was the night he’d drawn the demarcation line in the sand but even despite his hoarse screaming and cries it’d made little difference. Both of them had gone their separate ways, further embellishing their beliefs. It’s the way the status quo worked for them; how they became so rooted in a lifestyle dependant on medication to keep themselves going.

The boxes and clothes hangers looked so intimidating and his stomach was growling. In truth, he’d use anything as an excuse to try and linger around the apartment just a wee bit longer to keep up his strength. The confrontation was going to be the bane of his existence once the truth got out, a permanent blemish on his player card and reputation. If letting Mitch be self-indulgent would cripple the worst of the smack talk then he’d sleep in the same bed, just to let things go back to normal.

Circulating through the air was the thick, oaken smell of organic coffee, a gift from Carrick he suspects. The liquid’s mandibles sunk into his legs, stringing them forward down the corridors, through the pasty walls where it gradually lightened up.

Mitch was seated at the centre of the bar, mug in hand and the other circling words on a black and white document, printed double space. On edge, he couldn’t decide whether a tactical retreat back to the guest bedroom would be the best course of action or if he should stiffen up and embrace the awkward conversation yet to come.

Beating him to the punch yet again, Mitch turned in the barstool, backing up enough to stop the edge of the counter from pressing the air out of his lungs. Eyes still glazed over, his best bet was to believe Mitch had just recently slipped a pill. Despite that, there was no vengeance in his eyes. Just an ordinary neutral expression that accompanied the nod of his head.

“There’s coffee in the pot if you want the rest. If I drink any more I’ll be peeing for the next half an hour come practice.” The ends of his mouth split in a tiny smile, not discernable to the average person but painfully obvious to Auston. While not sultry, it did remind him of the lucid smiles he’d get in the afterglow of their activities, revelling in the bliss following their awkward kisses and frottage.

“Uh, thanks.” He returned the nodding gesture, opening one of the overhead cabinets and retrieving a plain white mug; his favourite one, stained yellow around the rim and basin. There used to be a picture of his mother printed there but repeated usage had stripped the ink off.

The longer words went unsaid the worse he felt. He couldn’t focus enough on the cup to place it on the cup stand and pour the remainder of the brew into it. When he did, his hands shook so badly little brown droplets scattered all over the marble counter.

“Listen,” Auston started, “about yesterday--”

Mitch let out a gusty exhale. “Not now Auston, there’s a lot of work to do.”

“I think we need to speak, this isn’t healthy.” He stood on the other side of the counter, hoping his presence wasn’t going to come off as imposing to the much smaller, more vulnerable man. “This,” he fumbled for words, “relationship of ours won’t survive but our friendship should.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to be friends after this,” Mitch pointed out. A tweet laced in his tone of voice made him look and sound very melancholy, but frankly, his face was still stuck in the same expression. Like a ventriloquist’s puppet, he was a human host used as a body by Joy to play house in.

Still, Auston’s mood was significantly dampened. It was the worst possible outcome. Using Mitch had never been the end goal but it came across as such.

Mitch took a long sip of his coffee, put his drink down on a fruit-inspired coaster, and looked Auston in the eye. “I’m not saying we can’t talk Auston. I just don’t feel comfortable going against the team like this.”

“You’re not going to tell?” Auston said slowly, not wanting to test the limits. The responding look he gave wasn’t herky-jerky and desperate, but a low dance of the eyebrows to dip his toe in the water.

Like many things he did, it struck a pose and made Mitch have to reconsider what he said next.

“I--” he paused “no. I won’t. Because I’m your friend and I’m not giving up on you.”

“It won’t bring me back, Mitch,” Auston replied. The cup in his hands was scathing, he wanted to dunk it in the sink and rid it because of how it removed him from the conversation, gave him something else to think about.

“I know it won’t,” Mitch said. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t stop you from making a mistake.”

Auston conceded at Mitch’s taunting there, taking a long slurp of coffee as he peered at Mitch from over the rim of the cup. They kept on him, heavy as an anchor that, combined with the serene look in his eyes, was more than daunting. The earlier decision to pander to Mitch’s whims began to fade. In an instant, he was reminded as to why he wanted out.

There was no room for civil conversation so they kept their distance. Practice wasn’t for a few hours because a local team was renting out the rink and there were no other engagements to occupy themselves with. Breakfast was just as much a bleak affair and in an hour’s time he was done entertaining the idea that they could work. He’d just woken up but he was ready to ship out his most personal belongings.

Finally, he finished off the pot and made his way upstairs with Mitch in tow. The both of them split off left and right, wrangling an empty suitcase out from the hallway closet to package the clothes and smaller belongings in. Mitch was oddly quiet even considering the circumstances. Every so often he’d take a peek at Auston and then return back to his little corner, pulling up phone cords and other lucrative little trinkets that had fallen between the end table and the wall.

He was picking up loose papers when something struck. A wooziness that made him lurch forward as if to vomit. A ringing sensation bloomed in his ears, steadily growing louder until he had to cup the shells to block it out. It didn’t work as planned, more than ever he needed to sit down. The world around him devolved into a flash of white and in the time it took to snap his fingers he was sitting in a violet haze of colours and dim-lighting that made for a sensual scene.

It wasn’t morning anymore; outside was a twilight oasis dipped in honey. The digits of his hands submerged themselves in the thick, gooey folds. He squeezed and pulled up globs that slid down his palm. Fuzzy creatures softened his knees when he slid down. Saliva coursed through his mouth. Warm and lucid.

Fringes of hair blocked out his looking. His eyelids were heavy. Eyelashes hung low and framed his pupils. Puffy clouds hung between his toes. They were squishy. He could press them out if he tried. Some of them lingered by his mouth like cotton candy. He’d chomp down but fingers were closing in around his head.

“Hush,” a deep voice said from behind, hooking its arms around Auston’s shoulders, “you’re going to give yourself a concussion.” Concussion was too big of a word to dissect. Auston giggled as he was shepherd down and pressed flat to the duvet. He could roll around and make a cocoon. Something safe and secure.

Mitch appeared from beside him and the colour had returned to his face. Rosy-cheeked like a cockatiel. Auston rose a finger and pressed in until he met the gum from outside. The drag of the remnants of facial hair made him lust. He led it down and squished the bottom lip. Moist. If he got greedy he could go further and feel tooth.

They giggled. Rain outside dribbled. Together it got to a comfortable warm. He could hold onto it. Air was dense. Palpable. Tasty too. His tongue lolled out and Mitch pushed it back in with a wide smile. His dimples popped.

“You’re cute,” was all he said. Their lips touched. Bliss dove in through him. He didn’t want to let go. His grip tightened but he was still floating. He couldn’t swim to shore. He didn’t want to. Liquid happiness was flooding his lungs. He was hoarse with words that he couldn’t say. He choked on them.

“Mm,” Auston hummed. “Heya.” He was happy. His world was back in high definition.

“Heya,” Mitch said back. In an instant, he was sober. All but his telling eyes. “Forgive me.”

“For what?” Auston said out of reflex. His tongue was like molten aluminum, it was so hard to lift it. Part of him ached to accuse and yell but he didn’t want to. Couldn’t remember why.

“Oh, nothing.” Hands settled on his waist. They stuck like wax. The nerves underneath burned with raw energy. He craved more. “It’s not important, anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!!


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